The characters in VN's novel Bend Sinister (1947) include the philosopher Adam Krug and his friend Ember, the Shakespeare scholar and translator. Ember (the name means in Hungarian "human being") is the son of a Persian merchant:
But enough of this, let us hear Ember's rendering of some famous lines:
Ubit' il' ne ubit'? Vot est' oprosen.
Vto bude edler: v rasume tzerpieren
Ogneprashchi i strely zlovo roka –
(or as a Frenchman might have it:)
L’éorgerai-je ou non? Voici le vrai problème.
Est-il plus noble en soi de supporter quand même
Et les dards et le feu d'un accablant destin –
Yes, I am still jesting. We now come to the real thing.
Tam nad ruch'om rostiot naklonno iva,
V vode iavliaia list'ev sedinu;
Guirliandy fantasticheskie sviv
Iz etikh list'ev – s primes'u romashek,
Krapivy, lutikov –
(over yon brook there grows aslant a willow
Showing in the water the hoariness of its leaves;
Having tressed fantastic garlands
of these leaves, with a sprinkling of daisies,
Nettles, crowflowers – )
You see, I have to choose my commentators.
Or this difficult passage:
Ne dumaete-li Vy, sudar', shto vot eto (the song about the wounded deer), da les per'ev na shliape, da dve kamchatye rozy na proreznykh bashmakakh, mogli by, kol' fortuna zadala by mne turku, zasluzhit' mne uchast'e v teatralnoy arteli; a, sudar'?
Or the beginning of my favourite scene:
As he sits listening to Ember's translation, Krug cannot help marvelling at the strangeness of the day. He imagines himself at some point in the future recalling this particular moment. He, Krug, was sitting beside Ember's bed. Ember, with knees raised under the counterpane, was reading bits of blank verse from scraps of paper. Krug had recently lost his wife. A new political order had stunned the city. Two people he was fond of had been spirited away and perhaps executed. But the room was warm and quiet and Ember was deep in Hamlet. And Krug marvelled at the strangeness of the day. He listened to the rich-toned voice (Ember's father had been a Persian merchant) and tried to simplify the terms of his reaction. Nature had once produced an Englishman whose domed head had been a hive of words; a man who had only to breathe on any particle of his stupendous vocabulary to have that particle live and expand and throw out tremulous tentacles until it became a complex image with a pulsing brain and correlated limbs. Three centuries later, another man, in another country, was trying to render these rhythms and metaphors in a different tongue. This process entailed a prodigious amount of labour, for the necessity of which no real reason could be given. It was as if someone, having seen a certain oak tree (further called Individual T) growing in a certain land and casting its own unique shadow on the green and brown ground, had proceeded to erect in his garden a prodigiously intricate piece of machinery which in itself was as unlike that or any other tree as the translator's inspiration and language were unlike those of the original author, but which, by means of ingenious combination of parts, light effects, breeze-engendering engines, would, when completed, cast a shadow exactly similar to that of Individual T - the same outline, changing in the same manner, with the same double and single spots of sun rippling in the same position, at the same hour of the day. From a practical point of view, such a waste of time and material (those headaches, those midnight triumphs that turn out to be disasters in the sober light of morning!) was almost criminally absurd, since the greatest masterpiece of imitation presupposed a voluntary limitation of thought, in submission to another man's genius. Could this suicidal limitation and submission be compensated by the miracle of adaptive tactics, by the thousand devices of shadography, by the keen pleasure that the weaver of words and their witness experienced at every new wile in the warp, or was it, taken all in all, but an exaggerated and spiritualized replica of Paduk's writing machine? (chapter 7)
In his poem Persidskaya miniatyura ("Persian Miniature," 1919) Nikolay Gumilyov (1886-1921) mentions negotsiant (a merchant):
Когда я кончу наконец
Игру в cache-cache со смертью хмурой,
То сделает меня Творец
Персидскою миниатюрой.
И небо, точно бирюза,
И принц, поднявший еле-еле
Миндалевидные глаза
На взлет девических качелей.
С копьем окровавленным шах,
Стремящийся тропой неверной
На киноварных высотах
За улетающею серной.
И ни во сне, ни наяву
Невиданные туберозы,
И сладким вечером в траву
Уже наклоненные лозы.
А на обратной стороне,
Как облака Тибета, чистой,
Носить отрадно будет мне
Значок великого артиста.
Благоухающий старик,
Негоциант или придворный,
Взглянув, меня полюбит вмиг
Любовью острой и упорной.
Его однообразных дней
Звездой я буду путеводной,
Вино, любовниц и друзей
Я заменю поочередно.
И вот когда я утолю,
Без упоенья, без страданья,
Старинную мечту мою
Будить повсюду обожанье.
When I’ve given up
playing at hide-and-seek with sour-faced
Death, the Creator will turn me
into a Persian miniature —
With a turquoise sky
and a prince just raising
his almond eyes
to the arc of a girl’s swing,
And a bloody-speared Shah
rushing down rocky paths,
across cinnabar heights,
after a flying deer,
And roses that no eyes,
no dreams have ever seen,
and vines bending into the grass
in the sweet twilight,
And on the other side,
clean as clouds in Tibet,
a great artist’s mark:
a sign and a joy.
Some fragrant old man
of business, of the court,
will see me, love me
at once, love me hard and sharp.
His dull-turning days
will wind around me.
Wine will vanish for him,
and women, and friends.
And finally — without ecstasy,
without pain — my old dream
will be satisfied,
and everyone, everywhere will adore me.
(tr. Burton Raffel)
In his imaginary dialogue with Koncheyev (the rival poet) Fyodor Konstantinovich Godunov-Cherdyntsev, the narrator and main character in VN's novel Dar ("The Gift," 1937), mentions Persian miniatures:
Они простились. Фу, какой ветер...
"... Но постойте, постойте, я вас провожу. Вы, поди, полунощник, и не мне, стать, учить вас черному очарованию каменных прогулок. Так вы не слушали бедного чтеца?"
"В начале только - и то в полуха. Однако я вовсе не думаю, что это было так уж скверно".
"Вы рассматривали персидские миниатюры. Не заметили ли вы там одной - разительное сходство! - из коллекции петербургской публичной библиотеки - ее писал, кажется, Riza Abbasi, лет триста тому назад: на коленях, в борьбе с драконятами, носатый, усатый... Сталин".
They said good-by. “Brr, what a wind!”
“Wait, wait a minute though—I’ll see you home. Surely you’re a night owl like me and I don’t have to expound to you on the black enchantment of stone promenades. So you didn’t listen to our poor lecturer?”
“Only at the beginning, and then only with half an ear. However, I don’t think it was quite as bad as that.”
“You were examining Persian miniatures in a book. Did you not notice one—an amazing resemblance!—from the collection of the St. Petersburg Public Library—done, I think, by Riza Abbasi, say about three hundred years ago: that man kneeling, struggling with baby dragons, big-nosed, mustachioed—Stalin!” (Chapter One)
Reza Abbasi, also known as Aqa Reza (c.1565-1635), was the leading Persian miniaturist of the Isfahan School during the later Safavid period, spending most of his career working for Shah Abbas I.
Chapter Four of The Gift, Fyodor's book on Chernyshevski, is written in the form of a circle. The same can be said of VN's story Krug ("The Circle," 1836) whose main character, Innokentiy Bychkov, is in love with Fyodor's sister Tanya. "An Englishman whose domed head had been a hive of words" brings to mind VN's poem Shakespeare (1924) and the ending of Gumilyov's poem Slovo ("The Word," 1920):
В оный день, когда над миром новым
Бог склонял лицо своё, тогда
Солнце останавливали словом,
Словом разрушали города.
И орёл не взмахивал крылами,
Звёзды жались в ужасе к луне,
Если, точно розовое пламя,
Слово проплывало в вышине.
А для низкой жизни были числа,
Как домашний, подъяремный скот,
Потому что все оттенки смысла
Умное число передаёт.
Патриарх седой, себе под руку
Покоривший и добро и зло,
Не решаясь обратиться к звуку,
Тростью на песке чертил число.
Но забыли мы, что осиянно
Только слово средь земных тревог,
И в Евангелии от Иоанна
Сказано, что Слово это - Бог.
Мы ему поставили пределом
Скудные пределы естества.
И, как пчелы в улье опустелом,
Дурно пахнут мёртвые слова.
Then, when God bent His face
over the shining new world, then
they stopped the sun with a word,
a word burned cities to the ground.
When a word floated across the sky
like a rose-colored flame
eagles closed their wings, frightened
stars shrank against the moon.
And we creeping forms had numbers,
like tame, load-bearing oxen —
because a knowing number
says everything, says it all.
That grey-haired prophet, who bent
good and evil to his will,
was afraid to speak
and drew a number in the sand.
But we worry about other things, and forget
that only the word glows and shines,
and the Gospel of John
tells us this word is God.
We’ve surrounded it with a wall,
with the narrow borders of this world,
and like bees in a deserted hive
the dead words smell bad.
(tr. Burton Raffel)
Krug (circle), Ember (human being) and Krug's "the square root of I is I" make one think of the Vitruvian Man, a drawing by Leonardo da Vinci:
In his poem Florentsiya ("Florence,' 1913) Gumilyov mentions Leonardo's lost painting Leda and the Swan:
О сердце, ты неблагодарно!
Тебе — и розовый миндаль,
И горы, вставшие над Арно,
И запах трав, и в блесках даль.
Но, тайновидец дней минувших,
Твой взор мучительно следит
Ряды в бездонном потонувших,
Тебе завещанных обид.
Тебе нужны слова иные.
Иная, страшная пора.
…Вот грозно встала Синьория
И перед нею два костра.
Один, как шкура леопарда,
Разнообразьем вечно нов.
Там гибнет «Леда» Леонардо
Средь благовоний и шелков.
Другой, зловещий и тяжёлый,
Как подобравшийся дракон,
Шипит: «Вотще Савонароллой
Мой дом державный потрясён».
Они ликуют, эти звери,
А между них, потупя взгляд,
Изгнанник бедный, Алигьери,
Стопой неспешной сходит в Ад.
In VN's memory the tragic death of his father on March 28, 1922, was forever connected with Alexander Blok's poem about Florence. Blok died in Petrograd on August 7, 1921. Three weeks later Gumilyov was executed by the Bolsheviks.
According to Leonardo, there are three classes of people: those who see, those who see when they are shown, those who do not see. Leonardo's Vitruvian Man resembles the letter T (cf. Individual T). To correctly represent trees, Leonardo perceived a so-called 'Rule of trees' which states that "all the branches of a tree at every stage of its height are equal in thickness to the trunk when put together."